Serbia: Revisited
by ibohemianam
Summary: Re-posted from the crossover section. It's April 2001, and G Callen's on his way to Serbia with one Leroy Jethro Gibbs. This is the beginning of a lasting friendship, and what better way to start things off than with the national security of the good old U.S. of A. at stake?
1. Chapter 1

_I've had this up in the crossover section for about a week, but it wasn't getting as much traffic as I thought it would, so I'm posting this here as well._

_I'll stick some notes at the end in case any of you were wondering about the historical basis of that bit in the middle._

* * *

**April 2001**

Callen shifted his bag on his shoulder, leaning down to pick up his bedroll. Squinting into the late afternoon sun, he scanned the tarmac, wind ruffling his shaggy hair.

"Callen!" a voice called.

He turned and made out a man in his early forties striding towards him, dark suit jacket flapping in the chill wind.

"Gibbs," the man said, holding out a hand, "How was the flight?

"Pleased to meet you," Callen replied automatically, taking the proffered hand, "It was… Long. I thought we were meeting at MTAC first?"

Gibbs shook his head.

"Sec Nav wants us to leave ASAP. I'll brief you on the plane."

Gibbs turned and strode off the way he came. Callen hurried behind him.

"We're flying straight out of here?"

"Yeah," the reply floated back.

Gibbs led him to the hangar where a jet sat waiting for them, gleaming under the dull lights. Without a word, the older man hopped nimbly up the steps into the empty cabin, and Callen followed. He stowed his bag and bedroll in an overhead compartment as Gibbs pulled up the steps and sealed the cabin door. They began taxiing out to a runway almost before the door was shut.

Callen sank into a leather seat and scratched at his several-months' worth of facial hair, feeling slightly self-conscious in the presence of the clean-cut man in the seat across from him.

"Want anything to drink?" Gibbs offered.

"I'm fine, thanks," Callen replied stiffly.

Gibbs cocked an eyebrow.

"It's a long flight."

"Just got off a longer one."

Gibbs gazed at him levelly before asking, "How's Los Angeles this time of the year?"

"Wouldn't know," Callen replied.

The plane suddenly lurched as they flew down the runway without a word from the cockpit. Callen braced himself against the seat next to him as they lifted off, rumbling giving way to the low whine of the engines as they sailed into the air.

Slowly, Callen sat up in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggled in vain to pop his ears and block out the pounding in his temples. He flinched again as a cold glass nudged the back of his wrist and looked up to see Gibbs forcing a glass of water into his hand.

Callen accepted it wordlessly, taking small sips and swallowing hard.

Gibbs broke the silence.

"How long were you undercover?"

Callen eyed him warily.

"Couple months," he took a sip, "Why?"

"You look like crap."

Callen smirked, "Thanks. You're MCRT, right?"

"Yeah."

"What's that like?"

"Domestic."

Callen nodded slowly.

"Why us, then?"

Gibbs cocked his head appraisingly, saying, "Sure you're up for this right now? We've got ten hours."

Callen shook his head.

"I'm fine."

Gibbs pressed his lips together and stood, reaching into the overhead compartment above him and pulling down a black backpack, reaching in and withdrawing two thin folders. He tossed one to Callen, who hastily set the now-empty glass down between his feet and caught it.

"Adam Kasan, no criminal history, broke into MTAC two days ago," Gibbs began, leaning forward and flipping his folder open.

Callen raised an eyebrow but remained silent, slowly following along in the report.

"He overrode the security codes and was able to access several hard drives' worth of top secret intelligence reports we gathered on events leading up to Milošević's overthrow in Serbia last year. He was on the first flight to Novi Sad via Belgrade by the time we realized he was behind it. Intelligence suggests that Kasan has ties to a militant offshoot of the Serbian Radical Party, which itself has been developing closer relations with the Serbian Radical Party of the Republika Srpska, an autonomous region in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Following the continued failure of UNMIK in Kosovo, there has been growing support for Serbia's annexation of the Republika Srpska. The Bosnian government isn't having any of this, so tensions are increasing, especially in light of the referendum they're holding in the Republika Srpska next week to determine the authority of Bosnia's federal court."

"So he's got our intelligence reports on what happened in Serbia before the Bulldozer Revolution," Callen broke in, frowning, "What exactly was in those reports?"

Gibbs paused before saying slowly, "We… may have had a role in the revolution."

Callen raised both eyebrows this time.

"We still haven't learned?"

Gibbs shook his head wryly.

"Nope."

Callen smirked again, flipping through the rest of the file's meager contents.

"Guess that explains the lack of in-flight reading material," he muttered, "I assume our objective is to retrieve the files before Kasan has a chance to sell them to the highest bidder?"

Gibbs nodded.

"We'll be flying into Novi Sad," he continued, "An old contact of mine will meet us there."

Callen flipped back to the front of his folder, eyeing the lone paragraph of information about their contact.

"Is that how you got dragged into this?" he asked casually, looking up out of the corner of his eye, "Because you know this—" he glanced down at the picture again, "—Boris Nikolayevich Petrov? I'm thinking the Special Agent in Charge of the MCRT has better things to be doing with his time."

"I happen to speak fluent Serbian," Gibbs countered evenly, "You don't. Correct?"

Callen snapped the folder shut and leaned over, bringing the glass to his lips and taking a long sip of water.

"Yeah," he replied.

Gibbs set aside his folder slowly and turned back to face Callen, hands on his knees.

"If you've got a problem, spit it out."

"A problem?" Callen smirked, absently swirling the water in his glass, "Why would I have a problem?"

"You tell me."

The whine of the engines filled the cabin. Neither man moved.

Callen stood, snapping the palpable tension in two.

"You got a bathroom on this thing?" he asked lightly, "I need a shave."

Gibbs nodded and sat back, jerking a chin towards the rear of the plane.

"Thanks," Callen said, standing and grabbing his bag and bedroll from the overhead bin. He pulled out a disposable razor and tucked it into his back pocket, silently sliding the bathroom door closed behind him.

He sagged against the door, weariness flooding his bones. _Straight from one op to the next_, he thought, _And here I was, looking forward to a hot bath. Renko was right. I've gone soft_. He tried to avoid his own gaze in the mirror as he wet the razor and pressed it to his cheek, his practiced hand quickly shaving away the mass of brown that crowded his chin. Using a paper towel to clean the sink and counter of any lingering hairs, he tossed both towel and razor into the trash, running the water in the sink to a healthy scalding stream as he did so. Callen ducked his head under the water and scrubbed vigorously at his matted hair, trying to remember if he'd ever let it grow out this much before.

_Definitely not_, he decided as he shut off the faucet and stood there, hunched over and dripping in the sudden realization that he'd forgotten to bring a towel with him.

Wringing his hair out as well as he could, he reached back and peeled off his shirt, using it to dry his face and hair. Standing up straight, he threaded a self-conscious hand through the mass of tangled locks, accidentally catching sight of himself in the mirror.

_That's not me_, Callen thought, detached. _That can't be me._

He'd lost weight. His collar bones cast sharp shadows on the base of his throat, accenting the hollows in his cheeks. Callen began to wish he hadn't shaved. He twisted around, running an awkward hand down his side and feeling every rib. Glancing up, he accidentally made eye contact with himself, blue eyes bloodshot and heavily shadowed. He tore his gaze away and took a shuddering breath.

_Keep it together_, he thought, _Serbia. Novi Sad. Vojvodina. Gotta brush up on your Romanian._

Swiping a hand one more time through his hair, he opened the bathroom door cautiously, draping his wet shirt around himself as he hurried without hurrying back to his seat. Gibbs glanced up from the magazine in his lap but didn't comment.

Callen dove into his bag and pulled out the first shirt he saw, hastily tugging it on over his head and tossing his damp shirt over the seat beside him to dry.

"Get some sleep," Gibbs said, and Callen snapped his head up to find Gibbs looking straight at him, "I need you sharp when we land."

"I'm fine," Callen said mechanically, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

"No, you're not."

At this quiet assertion, Callen narrowed his eyes.

"Look," he snapped, "I get that the director wants you on this so we can get in easier with your contact, but that doesn't mean I want to have you along for the ride. It's nothing personal—I just work better alone."

"I get that," Gibbs replied evenly, "I'm just saying that you probably need some sleep. You haven't even asked about our covers yet, and I'm sure that since you've made it clear that you operate better on your own, you'd probably raise seven hells about it if you were actually functioning well enough to consider reading it."

Callen stiffened, reaching for his folder again and flipping to the back, eyes narrowing.

"This is ridiculous," he spat, flinging the folder aside.

"I actually agree with you on that one."

Callen glared, irritably swiping his hair aside again.

"Whose idea was this?" he demanded.

"The director's."

"Figures."

"Believe me, I'd never suggest it."

"You think this is funny?"

"Kind of, yeah."

"You've got a real crappy sense of humor."

Gibbs smiled wryly.

"So does the director."

Callen shook his head and slumped forward, anger giving way again to weariness.

"So you're supposed to be… My brother. Vasily Sergeyevich Alkaev," he wrinkled his nose, "What are we doing in Serbia? We're Russian."

"Arms dealers. What else would we be? We're in the black market for intelligence."

Callen snorted, "How original."

"Ten years after the Soviet Union and we're still at it."

The engines' whine didn't seem so oppressive now.

Callen sat back slowly, luxuriating in the feel of cool leather behind his back.

"How long you been with the MCRT?" he asked suddenly.

Gibbs looked up from his magazine, answering slowly, "Since before NCIS was NCIS. How long you been with OSP?"

Callen shrugged, "About a year."

"You plan on staying on a little longer than you did with the DEA?"

Callen paused.

"You read up on me, didn't you?"

"Don't say you didn't do the same."

Callen snorted, "I've been stuck in a jungle for the past three months. _Clean water _was a little hard to come by, let alone classified information."

"I'm sure you managed."

Surprised, Callen replied with a faint chuckle, "Yeah… Yeah, I did. Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Mind sharing one of those names with me?"

Gibbs smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Anything for a brother."

* * *

___A few notes on historical context:  
The Republika Srpska is a part of Bosnia and Herzegovina. It has a Serbian majority, which led to my idea about possible annexation, especially given the '98-'99 Kosovo War, which is still relatively recent in the timeline of this story. Slobdan Milosevic was the 3rd President of Yugoslavia from '97-'00, a span of time that saw his popularity decline rapidly amidst ICTY charges of war crimes allegedly committed in Kosovo. His overthrow became known as the Bulldozer Revolution after an event in which a protester purportedly drove a bulldozer in a charge against the RTS (Radio Television of Serbia) building. Vojvodina is an autonomous province in northern Serbia, and Romanian is one of the six official languages used in this region._

_This was a really interesting story to write. I've always thought that Gibbs and Callen would get along really well, given their exchange in the backdoor pilot that, in my opinion, was much too brief. So this was my solution: Seven chapters and an epilogue. I'll be posting the chapters fairly regularly (maybe every day) since I've already got everything written out. _

_Thanks for reading/reviewing!_


	2. Chapter 2

Callen started awake, struggling to reconcile the polished wood paneling above him with memories of jagged jungle bark and relentless headlong rushes through the undergrowth.

"Callen," a voice called from somewhere to his left. His name. His real name. He must have been compromised. He—

Callen lurched upright, lunging for the knife in his boot and hurling himself across the aisle in the general direction of the voice.

A numbing blow to the back of his knife hand sent it clattering uselessly down to the carpeted floor. Two powerful hands seized him by the shoulders.

"Callen!" the voice sounded, sharp and commanding.

Callen froze. _Airplane. Serbia. Gibbs_.

Gibbs.

Callen backed away, flushing violently.

"Sorry," he mumbled, bending down to retrieve his knife and tucking it back into his boot.

"Let's try not to kill each other before we land, alright?" Gibbs said drily, settling back into his seat.

"Yeah," Callen replied, shields slamming firmly down again, "How much longer do we have?"

Gibbs glanced sidelong at him.

"Why do you think I woke you up?"

The plane jolted, and the rumbling of wheels filled the cabin. Thrown off balance, Callen grasped the edge of his seat again and glared at Gibbs, who smirked back at him. As the plane taxied to a hangar, Gibbs stood and gathered his things.

"When was the last time you were in Serbia?" he asked.

"Couple years ago," Callen replied, slinging his bag and bedroll over his shoulder, "Kosovo. During the NATO bombings. You?"

"Last year."

Gibbs strode for the cabin door, popping it open and hopping down. Callen shook his head, eyes narrowed, and followed.

The hangar was brightly lit despite the morning sun streaming in through lofty windows. Callen squinted again, re-orienting himself.

"This is Callen," Gibbs said in Russian as he approached, "My partner. Callen, Petrov."

Callen accepted the proffered hand, sizing up the man before him.

He appeared startlingly young, limbs long and gangly. Large, dark eyes conveyed a depth of emotion that instantly put Callen on guard. There was no way this kid was an operator.

"So you're Callen," Petrov said in unaccented English, "I've heard a lot about you."

"I'm afraid I can't say the same," Callen said cautiously, glancing at Gibbs out of the corner of his eye.

"Let's go," Gibbs said, "Ego stroking can wait."

They hurried from the hangar into Petrov's waiting Jeep, driving directly across the airfield into the city. Callen's face stung with the cold, and he suppressed a shiver and hunched over in the back seat, absently memorizing landmarks and periodically checking for a tail.

"How've you been?" Gibbs switched back to Russian again as they rumbled along.

"Lying low," Petrov replied with a short bark of laughter, "With all the rallies, work has been a little hard to come by," glancing at Gibbs, he amended, "Legitimate work."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, "We're not legitimate?"

"Your humor hasn't improved with age, Gibbs."

"Neither has the director's."

"That's right," Petrov glanced in the rearview mirror at Callen huddled miserably in the backseat, "You two are supposed to be brothers?"

"Yeah," Callen shouted, "Care to swap assignments?"

Petrov smiled, "Not on your life."

* * *

They turned down an alley lined with dumpsters into the shed at the end. The Jeep squeaked by several towering stacks of boxes and shuddered to a halt. Gibbs and Petrov climbed out, and Callen swung himself down through the rear window, rubbing his hands together as his breath misted in the air.

He caught his bag and bedroll as Gibbs tossed them towards him before reaching behind the rear seat and picking up his own backpack, turning to wait outside the shed as Petrov swung the heavy wooden doors shut and locked them.

Petrov pushed aside the nearest dumpster, revealing a door of rotting wood, which he pushed open.

"Not exactly top-notch security," Callen commented to Gibbs, who rolled his eyes and followed Petrov in.

They found themselves in a brightly-lit basement, a small kitchenette tucked away in the corner, several cots pulled out in the living room. Callen's eyes fell upon the veritable armory spread out on the room's only couch. He set his bag and bedroll down beside them, casting an expert eye over the gleaming weapons.

"These are just for show, right?" he said, "We're arms dealers, not guerilla fighters."

"Oh, I just keep those around," Petrov said airily, setting a pot of water on the stove to boil, "They've come in handy a few times."

Callen shot a look at Gibbs, who smirked again, setting his own bag down by one of the cots and shrugging out of his coat. He checked his watch and pulled a map out of his bag, kneeling down and spreading it out over the only bare spot in the room.

"We've got about eight hours until Kasan will make the drop," he said.

"How do we know this?" Callen frowned, "MTAC's been compromised –how can any of their intel be solid?"

"Your intel didn't come from MTAC," Petrov replied, turning and leaning against the stove, folding his arms and peering at Callen from under a shaggy mane of white-blonde hair, "There _is_ a reason I'm working with you, G Callen, and it's not just because I've got a kitchen and some guns."

The pot hissed, and Petrov turned, quickly pulling it off the burner and producing three mugs from a cabinet by the refrigerator.

"Tea or coffee?" he asked Callen amiably.

"Tea, thanks," Callen replied, on edge. Something about this kid didn't quite…

"You're wondering who I am and what I really do," Petrov said, his back to Callen, tone conversational as he prepared the tea, "I'm sure there was nothing much in that folder you read on the plane ride here, just as there wasn't much in the databases about you. You see, G Callen," he turned around, a mug of steaming tea in each hand, "We have a lot more in common than you might think." He handed Callen a mug and returned to the stove for the freshly ground coffee, which he handed to Gibbs.

Callen took a cautious sip and suppressed a gag.

"My parents died when I was young—I never knew them. I was born in Soviet Russia but migrated through most of Yugoslavia and Eastern Europe before I made it to the U.S.," Petrov said, laughing at the look on Callen's face, "I'm not as young as you think I am, Agent Callen. This—" he ran a hand through his hair, "Works better than that silver fox's at hiding my age," he laughed at the outrage on Gibbs's face before taking a long drink and continuing soberly, "An NIS agent by the name of Mike Franks smuggled me out after he found that I was behind the weapons ring he was investigating. I was eleven years old. After I turned eighteen, I bounced around between the CIA and NIS for a few years. I never felt right in America, though. So I left. Turned in my badge and gun. They sent a lot of people after me, thought I'd defected, tried to kill me," he shook his head, "When Jethro showed up on my doorstep, I figured I could make this work. I became an asset. Away from America, away from politics, but still working to keep everything together."

Petrov paused for a long while, staring contemplatively into his tea, before speaking again, "I work with NCIS on one condition: No one besides Jethro will ever try to contact me, and I will never work with anyone besides him," he cocked a grin, "You see, Agent Callen, you're special already."

"I am honored," Callen said wryly, struggling to wrap his head around what he'd just learned.

Gibbs came up beside him, grumbling, "You want to tell him your life story now? Maybe we can all sit in a circle and roast some marshmallows."

"I'm good, thanks," Callen laughed, as Petrov met his gaze with a twinkle in his eyes, turning and eyeing the map spread out on the ground, "So now that we know _our_ intel is solid, what's the plan?"

"We're arms dealers looking for intel. We've got competition. What do we do?"

Callen smirked.

"We beat them to it."

"Yep," Gibbs said, crouching down and pointing at the map, "Kasan lives here in the Jamena, right on the Serbian border of the Republika Srpska. He's gotten cozy recently with some Bosnian Serbs in the Republika Srpska who aren't particularly interested in remaining a part of Bosnia. Intel suggests that Kasan plans to sell the reports to the highest bidder to use as leverage for U.S. support."

"The highest bidder, of course, being the only bidder," Callen interjected.

"The Bosnians," Petrov confirmed, joining them at the map.

"It's pretty clear that once the Bosnians have the reports in their possession, Kasan will disappear—either he'll be killed, or he'll go deep underground where even Petrov won't be able to find him. Either way, capturing Kasan alive is one of our two top priorities, the other being the retrieval of those files," Gibbs continued.

"Why is it so important that you should want Kasan alive?" Petrov questioned, frowning.

"He single-handedly broke into one of the highest-security departments in NCIS and made it out of the country before we could get to him," Callen replied, "We need to make sure there isn't something else we've missed."

"But I've broken into—" Petrov cut himself off mid-sentence as Gibbs turned away, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I didn't hear anything," Callen muttered, turning to Gibbs, "So how are we playing this?"

"We're rich arms dealers. Let's go find ourselves an apartment."

"You got it."


	3. Chapter 3

"So how bad exactly is your Serbian?" Gibbs shouted in that language as they bumped along in the Jeep, Petrov at the wheel.

"Gore nego vaša Rumunski*,"Callen answered.

Gibbs snorted, "What're you trying to say about my Romanian?"

"It's beautiful," Callen replied blandly.

Gibbs glared at him, wind rippling his short salt-and-pepper hair. Petrov grinned at Callen through the rearview mirror.

"He's really something, isn't he?" Petrov said in Romanian, veering around a sharp corner.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Callen shouted in response, also switching tongues.

"You really think I don't know what you're saying?" Gibbs growled, "I _know _you're talking about me."

"He's getting old. And cranky," Petrov continued.

"I can see that. At least you don't have to be his brother."

"My sympathies, my friend. My sympathies."

Callen chuckled and drew his coat tighter around himself, hunkering down in the back seat. It was a far cry from the humidity of South American rainforests, but at this point, Callen wasn't quite sure whether he preferred death by dehydration or death by open-air Jeep rides in the middle of an uncommonly frigid Serbian spring. He shook with a sudden chill, shivering and trying to slouch down enough to use the passenger seat as a windshield.

They crossed the border from South Bačka to Syrmia, and Callen leaned his head against the seat in front of him, ignoring the bumping and jolting as he fought back a wave of nausea.

Petrov glimpsed this movement in the mirror, turning to Gibbs and saying quietly in Serbian, "He looks terrible."

Gibbs glanced over his shoulder.

"I know," he replied softly, "We have to move quickly."

Petrov ran his tongue over his lips, eyes darkening in silent concern.

An hour later, they pulled up behind a deserted church on the bank of the Sava. Petrov hopped out and wrestled the tarp roof over the Jeep as Gibbs unloaded their gear. Callen climbed out slowly, shaking his head vigorously and flexing his fingers in an effort to regain feeling.

"You alright?" Gibbs asked casually as he shouldered a tripod on his way to the chapel.

"Yeah," Callen replied, bending over and picking up their GPS equipment, "Just cold. And carsick."

Gibbs barked out a laugh, calling, "You hear that Petrov? I'm not the only one who thinks you can't drive."

Petrov secured the tarp on the Jeep and scowled, "You Americans have weak stomachs."

Gibbs smiled and set down the tripod beside a shattered stained glass window. Petrov brought in the last of their equipment and shut the door behind him, leaving them in semi-darkness before he flipped a switch and several fluorescent lights nested high up in the rafters winked on, casting a harsh glow against the polished wooden floor.

"I'm always prepared," Petrov said in response to Callen's questioning look, "I installed the lights with the generator a couple of weeks ago when I heard you were coming. I can't risk having this old man falling and breaking his neck in the dark," he grinned and swatted Gibbs on the shoulder. Gibbs smacked him upside the head. Petrov's grin grew wider.

"You two married or something?" Callen said flatly, earning his own smack to the back of the head as Gibbs stalked past him with a bundle of extension cords in his arms.

"There's an altar behind the two of you if you're interested," Gibbs said, voice echoing from the back of the chapel, where he was hooking up their GPS equipment to the generator.

Callen caught Petrov's eye and matched his grin.

"Only if you agree to be our best man," they replied in unison.

"Or ring boy," Callen added.

"Weren't you undercover as a priest the last time you were here?" Petrov chimed in.

Silence reigned from the back of the chapel.

"I think I heard an eye roll," Petrov whispered.

Callen fought back a distinctly juvenile snicker and started laying out their munitions.

"The moment Petrov's set up, we're out of here," Gibbs said, emerging from the shadows and glancing again at his watch, "We've got to catch him during lunch break."

"Go," Petrov flapped a hand, gesturing with a Kalashnikov that Callen hoped was not as old as it looked, "I'm fine. The generator is good. The lights are good. The guns are good. The confessional is good."

"The… confessional?" Callen asked cautiously.

"You'll see," Petrov grinned again as Gibbs seized Callen by the arm and bodily turned him around, pointing towards the exit.

"Go," he commanded.

Callen went.

"Why didn't we put the tarp up on the way here?" Callen asked, leaning back and savoring the fact that a freezing wind wasn't trying to peel away the skin on his nose.

"Do I really need to answer that?" Gibbs snapped.

Callen grinned crookedly.

"Just so you know," he said, "I like your driving a lot better than Petrov's."

"I'm honored. This is it." Gibbs pulled into a narrow alley by a large red-brick apartment.

Callen sat up immediately, saying, "We're here, Petrov. Do you copy?"

Petrov's voice crackled over his earpiece, "Copy that."

"Heading in," Gibbs said.

They piled out of the Jeep, semi-automatics in hand. Pasting themselves on either side of the door, Gibbs made eye contact with Callen and nodded briefly. Callen reached for the door knob with his picks but froze when the door drifted open of its own accord.

Gunfire broke out from inside the building.

Callen threw himself back against the wall with a curse.

"Someone beat us to it!" Callen shouted into his mic, "Petrov, we're going in hot!"

He burst in through the door, stock jammed against his shoulder. No immediate fire greeted him, and he crept quickly down the hall, shoulder pressed to the wall. He sensed Gibbs follow him inside.

Another burst of fire came from above, and Callen pointed towards the ceiling.

Nodding tightly, Gibbs stepped nimbly past him to the stairs on the left, darting up almost to the first landing. He held up three fingers.

Callen acknowledged this with a nod, moving up past Gibbs. Peering around the bannister, he made out three figures clustered around a fourth on the ground, backlit by late morning light streaming in through an open window.

Angry words in Serbian flew over his head as he gestured behind his back with his left hand. Gibbs patted him on the shoulder, and Callen darted forwards, dropping to a knee and firing two quick bursts that found their marks. He heard Gibbs do the same behind him.

They cautiously made their way into the room, kicking aside weapons and checking for pulses.

The fourth man on the ground cowered away from them, trembling.

"We've got Kasan. Three hostiles down." Callen said in Russian.

"Copy that," Petrov replied.

"I'm sorry," Kasan whispered in heavily accented Russian, "I'm sorry, please…"

"Who are these men?" Gibbs demanded, "Why were they here?"

"Please… I'm sorry…" Kasan continued.

Gibbs switched to Serbian, "Who are these men?"

"I don't know," Kasan replied, backing away from Gibbs as he moved closer, "They just came in here and—"

"Were they after the files?"

"No, They couldn't have been."

"Why not?"

Kasan trembled, mouth working soundlessly.

"Why _not_?" Gibbs commanded.

"The Bosnians. The Bosnians,"Kasan babbled, hands held high in surrender, "The Bosnians were here this morning. They took everything."

Callen looked around. The room was in disarray, scuff marks on the polished wooden floor. Electrical wiring hung out of the far wall. The window hung open on one hinge, curtains shredded in a pool on the floor.

"Vasily, the place is trashed," he said to Gibbs quietly in Russian.

"Do you know these men?" Gibbs gestured at the bodies on the floor.

"They're Serbs. DOS. Liberal," Kasan replied, pressing his back against the wall and slowly standing.

Callen trained his gun on him. Kasan froze, thin hands spread wide.

"Please, please, I don't have anything!" Kasan cried, "They took it. Took it all!"

"Give me a name," Gibbs commanded.

"Please, they'll kill me," Kasan whimpered, "Please don't."

"Give me a name or you die here now."

Callen stepped in closer, finger on the trigger.

"Dragovic! Rodoljub Dragovic!" Kasan spouted, "He's with the Bosnians. He was here this morning and he took everything—my computers, my files, everything!"

"He has the reports?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes! He has the reports. Please, I don't know anything."

"I think you know plenty," Gibbs muttered, nodding at Callen, who swung his gun over his shoulder and stepped towards Kasan.

Kasan slid against the wall away from Callen, back to the window, muttering in Serbian.

Callen held out a hand, "Come on," he said stiffly, squinting against the stabbing in his eyes from the sunlight streaming in through the window, "I'm not going to shoot you. We're going to take you—"

The large window gave way with a snap of its final hinge, and Kasan pitched backwards even as Callen lunged towards him, gloved hands grasping thin air.

Callen swore under his breath as he leaned out the broken window at the huddled form below. A crowd started forming, pointing up at the apartment. Callen turned to Gibbs.

"We've have to get out of here."

"Go."

They pounded down the stairs and out the back door, peeling off their tactical vests and semi-automatics and piling into the Jeep. Gibbs threw it into reverse, and they screeched out of the alley, tarp rippling around them as they flew down the street.

"I'm sorry. That was my fault," Callen apologized tautly as they reached the outskirts of town, "I didn't secure the scene properly."

Gibbs didn't reply, smoothly guiding the Jeep off-road on the trail to the river.

Callen sat rigidly in the passenger seat, ears flaming red in the cold.

They pulled in behind the church, and Gibbs killed the engine. Taking a deep breath he stared, expressionless, at the river rolling by.

"Never say you're sorry," he said quietly, "It's a sign of weakness. Sure, maybe it was your fault and maybe you could've done things differently," he turned to look at Callen, who stared resolutely forward out the windshield, "But what can you do about it now?"

Callen blinked furiously, jaw clenched.

He slowly slid out of his side of the Jeep, reaching into the trunk and picking up their discarded equipment. Gibbs wordlessly took his gear from Callen's hands, pausing for a moment and meeting the younger agent's eyes.

"We got a name, and we've got a pretty good source," Gibbs said with half a smile, "Let's see where we go from here."

He turned and disappeared into the chapel, leaving Callen behind in a swirling haze of emotion.

* * *

*Worse than your Romanian.


	4. Chapter 4

"Rodoljub Dragovic, Rodoljub Dragovic…" keys clattered madly as Petrov skimmed through file after file on an enormous computer monitor set up in the confessional. The CPU whirred on several feet away below the crucifix.

Callen stopped short in the doorway.

"Where the hell did that come from?" he sputtered, setting his gun and vest on the first pew, "You carry that in all by yourself?"

"It's not as heavy as it looks," Petrov replied absently. Gibbs raised an eyebrow, and Callen hesitantly mounted the steps to join them.

He squinted at the blur of green letters scrolling by on the black screen.

"What is this?" he asked, "Some sort of database?"

"Something like that," Petrov replied, punching one last key triumphantly, "Got it! Rodoljub Dragovic. This is the Age of the Machine, I tell you," he beamed at Gibbs and Callen, who exchanged a look, "In ten years, everything will be digitized. No need for paper. Everything right on here!" he patted the monitor lovingly.

"I think I might prefer paper," Callen muttered.

"Rodoljub Dragovic, Petrov," Gibbs prompted.

"Bosnian Serb, long history with various militia groups in the Republika Srpska, far right tendencies. Arms dealer, dabbles in poppy fields. Slipped out of ICTY charges. Basically, your typical not-quite war criminal," Petrov said.

"Anything about Kasan seem off to you?" Gibbs asked, turning to Callen.

Callen nodded.

"It's pretty clear he wasn't the one who broke into MTAC. He could barely put a sentence together," Callen replied.

"And then he fell out the window," Gibbs deadpanned, "Clearly not suited for infiltrating NCIS."

Callen shifted uneasily, pointing at the screen, "This guy seems like a much stronger candidate. He's got the military background, counter-intelligence training, and resources to pull it off," he frowned, turning to Petrov, "Where do you even get this information?"

Petrov placed a finger against his lips with a sly smile.

Callen glanced at Gibbs, "We can't consider anything from our briefings solid. Clearly, someone's been screwing around with the databases," he paused, and Gibbs knew what he was thinking.

"You think there's a mole," he said.

Callen nodded slowly, "How else could they have gotten Kasan and Dragovic mixed up in the reports? Kasan's apartment had room for at least ten high-powered computers. He could probably have worked his way into our systems from there while someone on the inside made it _look_ like a physical break-in. Dragovic's got someone in D.C."

"Where can we find Dragovic?" Gibbs asked, turning back to Petrov.

Petrov shook his head, smile falling away.

"There's no known address. He travels around Vojvodina pretty regularly but spends most of his time across the border in the Republika Srpska."

Gibbs turned to Callen.

"If you were Dragovic, what would you do?"

"I'd cash in as soon as I could," Callen replied, "I'd know the Serbs would be after me, so I'd want to pull off the blackmail as soon as possible, especially with the referendum coming up next week."

"And how would you blackmail the United States of America?"

"I'd open up a channel of communication, let them know I had the files," Callen paced back and forth, thinking out loud, "Who would I contact? NCIS, of course. How? Who?" He froze mid-stride, eyes lighting up.

Turning to Gibbs, he grinned and said, "I guess we've still got a chance to be brothers after all."

Gibbs returned the grin with a grim smile, "The director is going to love this."

* * *

"You hearing me, Petrov?" Gibbs said into his mic, shutting off the Jeep, "We're going in."

"You're a little fuzzy, but I can still hear you," Petrov replied, crackling into both their earpieces, "Good luck."

"Thanks," Callen said, pulling out his earpiece and leaving it behind in the Jeep with Gibbs's. The mic was small enough to be concealed under their suits, but the earpieces were huge hulking things that would give them away immediately. Callen thought wryly about Petrov and his "Age of the Machine."

_That'll probably take a while_.

Callen glanced behind him across the Sava, barely making out the crumbling church on the other side.

"Who'd have thought Dragovic's name would get us across the border so fast?" he wondered.

"That means we're on the right track. You ready?"

Callen nodded, "When you are."

He looked up at the concrete office building and straightened the collar of his shirt, following Gibbs up the steps.

At the door, two men patted them down and escorted them into an elevator, where they rode up to the ninth floor. Gibbs exited first, Callen slightly behind him.

A tall, well-built man stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the elevator. Callen could make out the bulge of the handguns strapped to his side. Two men, clearly bodyguards, stood beside him. They, too, were armed to the teeth.

The man turned and faced them, strong features pulling into a wolfish smile.

"Dragovic," Gibbs said in Russian, holding out a hand, "Vasily Sergeyevich Alkaev. This is my younger brother Andrei."

Dragovic shook Gibbs's hand before transferring his iron grip to Callen, who played the part with a nervous smile and twitchy fingers.

"It is good to finally meet you," Dragovic said in slightly accented Russian, "Our good friend Petrov has sung your praises."

Callen wasn't surprised in the slightest.

"I hear you might need some help completing some… business with the Americans," Gibbs said smoothly, "We're here to help."

"And how might that be?"

"Ten years ago, we defected to the Soviet Union from the NIS. That is how we met Petrov. Unlike him, however," Gibbs cocked his head, "We have maintained our contacts."

Dragovic smiled.

"And what makes you think that we need your assistance in this business with the Americans?"

"Adam Kasan is dead," Callen spoke up, feeling the weight of Dragovic's gaze bore into him, "The Serbians killed him in his apartment this morning."

Something flickered behind Dragovic's eyes, but he replied neutrally, "Kasan? I know no Adam Kasan."

"We met with the Serbians," Gibbs picked up the thread seamlessly, "They know that without Kasan, you will have no way to validate the information you took from MTAC. That's why they killed him."

"How do I know you aren't working with the Serbians?"

"Because we killed them," Callen jumped in.

Dragovic raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly.

"We found them right after they threw Kasan out his second-story window," Callen continued, speaking quickly.

"What were you doing in Kasan's apartment?"

"Look," Gibbs interrupted again, shooting Callen a look of exasperation, "We're businessmen. We do business. If that involves getting our hands a little dirty from time to time, as long as we are… reimbursed, that is fine with me."

Stepping forward, he drew Dragovic aside as Callen lingered behind, speaking in Serbian with a hint of irritation, "Forgive Alexei. He is young. I assure you I bring him only to ensure my poor father's sanity."

Dragovic chuckled, patting Gibbs heavily on the shoulder, "Only the young will fight for us, Vasily. Only the young are easily swayed, and that is my message for my people. Youth brings unity," stepping back, he said in Russian, "America's time has long passed. They have grown old and complacent in their wealth. I only seek to distribute it a little more evenly… to those who truly deserve it."

He smiled at Callen, who grinned weakly back in return.

"Now," Dragovic said, turning back to Gibbs, "Let's talk business."

Gibbs flashed a disarming grin, rubbing his hands together.

"We have contacts in NCIS that will make sure the news reaches the right people."

"You think I don't? Give me names."

"Dragovic—"

"—Fornell," Callen broke in, "Tobias Fornell."

Gibbs glared at him again as Dragovic smiled.

"Seeking to fill your brother's shoes, Alexei?" he chuckled. Turning to Gibbs, he said lightly, "Your brother has much more enthusiasm for cooperation than you do, Vasily. Perhaps I should conduct my business with him instead."

"There will be no need for that," Gibbs gritted out from behind clenched teeth, "Alexei is only here to learn the business, isn't that right, Alexei?"

Callen flushed red, casting his eyes down to his shoes and muttering, "Yes, Brother."

Gibbs smiled thinly, turning back to Dragovic and switching to Serbian, "I can arrange for an exchange to take place this week in time for the referendum. What are your demands?"

"The Americans shall receive their files when Serbia annexes the Republika Srpska. There will be no exchange beforehand."

Gibbs shook his head reluctantly, "They will never believe you have the files in their possession if they do not see for themselves."

Dragovic's eyes narrowed, "Your contacts—"

"—My contacts will ensure that your demands reach the proper ears. They cannot ensure that these ears will listen."

Dragovic turned away, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Vasily, my friend, you drive a hard bargain."

"It is not I but the Americans, Dragovic," Gibbs replied, "A simple exchange, one hard drive, several gigabytes, no more. You know how much stock these Americans place by these gestures of good faith. Besides," he paused and made eye contact with Dragovic, "Nothing prevents you from making copies of the data yourselves."

Dragovic smiled again.

"You are a smart man, Vasily."

"I make my own business."

Gibbs held out a hand, and Dragovic took it.

"You know where to find me, Vasily."

"I do."

"The Director's gonna throw a fit," Callen said, smothering a laugh, "Good thing your guy's already on his way here."

They'd made it back across the river crossing, and Callen relaxed in the knowledge that the bait had been swallowed whole.

"That's not really our problem right now," Gibbs replied, turning down the now-familiar unpaved lane to the church, "We just have to make sure we get those hard drives back."

"How many do you think there are?" Callen asked as they parked behind the church.

"At least ten," Gibbs replied, hopping out of the Jeep, "He never would have agreed to give one up if there were any less."

"Yeah," Callen said slowly, "But don't you think that—"he trailed off, suddenly nauseous.

Gibbs turned to him, "What is it?"

"Nothing," Callen shook his head, "Just carsick."

"You okay?" Gibbs took in the hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes with a critical glance.

"I'm fine," Callen insisted, brushing past him into the chapel, "Quit… Older brother-ing me."


	5. Chapter 5

Petrov looked up when they entered, a broad grin plastered across his face.

"That was good, _Alexei_," he ribbed, coming over to smack Callen on the shoulder and nearly sending him crashing into the nearest stack of submachine guns, "You are a very good little brother."

Callen glared at him, shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it across the back of a pew. He dove straight for his bedroll after untucking and unbuttoning his shirt, rolling it out between two pews with his back to the wall.

"You feeling alright?" Petrov asked, looking askance at the bedroll, "It's not even dark outside yet."

"I don't sleep," Callen replied shortly, lying back with a grimace, "I nap."

"Callen," Gibbs said, and the younger agent looked up sluggishly as Gibbs handed him a pill bottle, "Ibuprofen. It'll take the edge off the headache."

"I'm fine," Callen mumbled.

Gibbs glared.

Callen took the bottle.

Shaking out a few pills, he swallowed them dry and handed the bottle back to Gibbs with a murmur of thanks. Pulling his SIG-Sauer from its holster in his bag, Callen lightly placed his hand on its stock, turned on his side, and closed his eyes, breathing evening out.

"He's sick, isn't he?" Petrov said quietly.

"Yeah," Gibbs said quietly, "Can you get the director up on the satellite phone?"

Petrov moved back to his computer, punching a few keys.

"Are you going to call it in?"

Gibbs hesitated, then said firmly, "No. I'm calling in reinforcements."

* * *

When Callen snapped back to instant awareness, it was dark out, the fluorescent lights had been shut off, and he was drenched in sweat. He instinctively tightened his hand around the trigger of his handgun, slowly rising to a crouch. The sound of keys clacking drifted towards him, and he relaxed, standing and lowering his weapon.

Petrov, illuminated by a single bare bulb hung over the pulpit, didn't notice him approaching until Callen was almost right beside him. Starting violently, Petrov had already whipped out his sidearm and was about to pull the trigger before he realized who he was about to blow to kingdom come.

"That was not funny," he said shortly, holstering his gun and turning back to his computer, "I could have killed you."

"I'm—" Callen stopped himself short, considering, before he said, "Where's Gibbs?"

"Jethro? He's outside. I think he found a boat."

Callen cocked his head, curious, "Why do you call him Jethro?"

Petrov paused, staring at the flickering laptop encased in a large briefcase before him.

"I've known him for a long time," he said at last, glancing quickly up at Callen and pulling a double take, "You look terrible."

"Thanks," Callen muttered, stalking out the door.

The frigid night air nearly stole the breath from his lungs, but Callen shook himself and wandered down to the bank of the river, hoping a walk would clear the fuzziness from his head. He found Gibbs hidden in a stand of rushes that towered far over his head. True to Petrov's word, he was examining a tiny rowboat that rocked gently among the weeds.

"You found a boat," Callen said dumbly.

"Yeah," Gibbs replied, running a hand along the bow, "She's a sturdy one."

"Did you go looking for it, or…?"

"She was just here. Must have drifted here from one of the villages upstream. Might come in handy."

Callen wrapped his arms around himself, shivering as Gibbs pulled the boat up onto the river bank.

"So when were you going to tell me?" Gibbs asked, brushing his hands off on his pants.

"Tell you what?" Callen replied, confused. His head started to pound again. He sat down, suddenly losing faith in his legs' ability to hold him upright.

Gibbs folded his arms and leaned back against the boat, heaving a sigh.

"The malaria, Callen."

Callen stiffened, darting a nervous glance at his superior.

"I…" he took a breath, "I wasn't sure."

"That's bull and you know it."

Callen drew his legs closer towards him, looking, for a moment, so much younger than his thirty-one years.

Gibbs spoke again, "You've just come straight off of a five-month assignment in Colombia, which is enough to burn anyone several shades of brown, but you look like you've spent the past year locked away in the Antarctic. You don't eat. You sleep for half an hour at a time. How much do you weigh now? 145? 150?"

Callen shrugged and shook his head, "It was urgent. I was the only one—"

"—You don't think Petrov's good enough? I could easily have taken someone from another unit. Russian, Serbian, Romanian. Plenty of people. I picked you because you were the best and I knew this would require a serious operator."

Callen didn't respond, staring away from Gibbs out across the water to the office building he knew stood on the other side.

"Why'd you come here, Callen?" Gibbs asked quietly.

"Because I've got nothing else."

Quiet words, filled with shame.

"This isn't something you just brush off."

Callen knew they were talking about more than malaria.

"I know."

Gibbs felt his heart sink a little further.

Callen sat there, hands and feet slowly going numb. Gathering himself, he stood stiffly, body mirroring the swaying of the rushes in the breeze.

"It matters, you know," Gibbs said softly.

"What?" Callen half-turned, squinting in the dark.

"Everything," Gibbs said, "Don't take it for granted."

Callen stared, so many emotions he'd kept hidden away now roiling free in his gut. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry and was glad for the darkness that hid his face.

"Come on," Gibbs said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Let's get back in there before Petrov thinks we've frozen to death and starts boiling some of that sludgy tea of his. His coffee I can handle, but his tea…" Gibbs shook his head.

"We should offer some to Dragovich," Callen said faintly, "It just might kill him for us,"

Gibbs laughed, and Callen knew he'd found his answer.


	6. Chapter 6

Callen awoke the next day to the sound of the Jeep grinding to a halt behind the church. Blinking in confusion, he found late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the dusty church windows. He sat up slowly, distantly registering the slamming of car doors and the squeak of the chapel door.

Gibbs entered first, chuckling as he held the door open for Petrov and another, shorter man who came tramping through the door.

"Gibbs," Callen croaked, wincing at the rasp in his voice.

Three heads swiveled in his direction.

"Rise and shine, Callen," Gibbs said, walking over with ill-concealed concern behind his grin.

He bent down and offered a hand to Callen, who reluctantly took it and levered himself upright, leaning heavily on the back of a prayer bench as the floor tilted disconcertingly under him.

"This is Special Agent Tobias Fornell, FBI," Gibbs said, waving a hand at the unassuming, graying man beside Petrov.

Callen held out his hand in greeting.

"Callen," he said, "Pleased to meet you."

"I hear you're a little under the weather," Fornell said by way of introduction, "Let's get this over with as quickly as possible so I can get back to my Russian vacation."

"He's supposed to be meeting with the Russian prime minister," Gibbs said by way of explanation, "But his flight was… delayed."

"Right," Callen muttered. _Both_ directors were going to have a cow.

"I've already made the call," Petrov said from the pulpit, "They'll be expecting us in an hour."

"Is there any way Dragovic will know that he's FBI and, you know, not NCIS?" Callen said, slowly sliding into his tactical vest.

"Hey," Fornell said in mock indignation, "I've known this idiot here long enough that I'm pretty sure I can pass as NCIS. We're all more or less the same, anyways."

Gibbs stopped short, handgun, half out of its holster.

"Remind me for a moment. I'm getting old," Gibbs snapped, "You ever spend any time as an enlisted man in any of the armed services? Marines? Army? Navy? Air Force? _Coast Guard_?"

Callen smirked as Fornell rolled his eyes, clearly familiar with this exchange.

"No," Fornell growled, "No, I do not have the _honor_ or _dignity_ or _brotherhood_ you have found as an enlisted man. Yes, I can see how _you_ might think that it makes me a lesser man, but _no_, I _don't_ really care what you think because _you_ are out of your mind."

Turning to Callen, he said, "Did you know that he builds boats in his basement?"

"Not surprised," Callen mumbled, shrugging on a lumpy sweater over his vest. He was freezing.

"_Boats_!" Fornell emphasized, voice echoing as he looked around for support. Petrov turned away, unable to hide the smile that broke out over his face. "_Boats_ in the _basement_. In _DC_."

"They get it, Tobias," Gibbs said, "Hurry up and get your ass together. We _enlisted men_ are waiting on you, _Special Agent_ Fornell."

"Freaks," Fornell muttered, throwing on Gibbs's jacket with "NCIS" plastered across the back. "There. Let's go."

Gibbs grabbed Fornell by the shoulder and spun him around, reaching into his jacket and grabbing his pistol.

"Current NCIS standard issue is the P226. P220 was rotated out last year."

Gibbs stuck a SIG P226 into Fornell's holster with a little more force than necessary.

"Now shut up. A boat just might save your ass today."

Callen leaned over and whispered in Petrov's ear.

"Sure they're not married?"

"Same wife," Petrov shrugged, "Close enough."

Callen blinked, not entirely sure he'd heard properly, but a double glare from both Gibbs and Fornell shut his mouth.

Gibbs stalked out through the chapel door without a further word, Fornell close behind, zipping up his borrowed jacket with an irritable tug. Callen glanced at Petrov.

"You ready for this?"

"Are you?"

Callen smirked.

"Always have been. Always will be."

* * *

Petrov killed the engine and hopped out of the Jeep, giving a quick double tap to his mic. He reached into the trunk, pulling out a large briefcase as Callen and Fornell followed Gibbs across the barren office parking lot to a familiar group of armed men flanking a large white truck.

"Dragovic!" Gibbs called in Russian.

"Vasily," the man replied, holding out a hand, nodding to Callen and Petrov, "How good it is to see you all. I am almost sad to see that our business is at an end."

Gibbs took Fornell by the arm and pushed him forward.

"Tobias Fornell," he said, "Our NCIS contact. You have the hard drives?"

Dragovic nodded to one of his men, who reached into the truck and handed a bag to him. Dragovic pressed the bag into Fornell's chest.

"You have ten minutes," he said, reaching out suddenly and seizing Callen by the throat, "Try anything, and little Alexei here will meet an… inopportune end."

Callen choked, struggling and failing to wriggle his way out of the Dragovic's headlock. He felt the cold metal of the barrel pressed to his temple, hearing more than seeing Fornell scurry to Petrov, who'd set up the battery-operated portable computer in the briefcase as they'd made introductions.

"Dragovic!" Gibbs protested, holding out his hands, "Is this how you do business?"

"Watch him," Dragovic ordered Petrov in Serbian, jerking his chin at Fornell, who frantically connected the first hard drive to the laptop, scanning its contents.

"What…?" Gibbs stuttered, turning to look at Petrov, "Petrov? What is he saying?"

Petrov cocked his pistol, face stony as he stood by Fornell, watching the files flash by on the screen.

"I've known Petrov for longer than you two have been riding around in your father's footsteps," Dragovic spat, "Did you really think I'd have let you in so easily, swallowed your words as the easy catch you thought me to be?"

The arm around Callen's throat tightened, and he began to feel real strain on his windpipe, wheezing for air.

"Please," Gibbs said in Serbian, "Please. Don't hurt him. This is just business. We have no quarrel with you."

"Tell me then, _Vasily_, why this man—" Dragovic pointed his gun at Fornell before quickly placing it back against Callen's head, "—is not NCIS."

There was an audible amount of clicking as Dragovic's men cocked their weapons.

"What do you mean?" Gibbs countered, holding both hands up, "I've known this man for twenty years! He's worked at NCIS all this time."

"You forget that I have my own contacts in NCIS, Vasily," Dragovic snarled, "Imagine my surprise when they reported no _Tobias Fornell_ in any Navy database. Did you really think you could double cross me, Vasily Sergeyevich Alkaev?" Dragovic shook his head, "You Russians are all the same."

"Your contact must have made a mistake," Gibbs said, "This man is a high-ranking agent. His work is classified."

Dragovic barked out a laugh, digging the barrel of his gun deeper into the side of Callen's head.

"You are a fool, Vasily, to think that I cannot reach beyond America's thin lines of defense and retrieve whatever data I want. Nothing electronic is untouchable. _Nothing_."

"Look," Gibbs said, desperation creeping into his tone, "Let Alexei go. He is the youngest in our family. Please."

"How can I call myself a man if I let you go?" Dragovic shouted, "You lie. You cheat. You steal. You have no honor. That is what America wants. A world without honor, devoid of men like Milošević, men who know the definition of unity and harmony."

Fornell yanked the final hard drive from the laptop, throwing his hands up in the air.

"I'm done. I'm done," he babbled in English, "Please let me go. I had nothing to do with this. They took me off my plane, and—"

"Quiet!" Dragovic bellowed in English, "You will go when I allow you to." Turning to Petrov, he jerked his chin at Gibbs and said in Serbian, "Kill him. Quickly. Agent Fornell has a flight to catch."

Petrov quickly screwed a silencer onto his pistol, holding it up to eye level, barrel straight between Gibbs's eyes. He hesitated for a moment, making eye contact.

"Petrov, remember where your allegiance lies," Dragovic murmured, "This man is slime. An American businessman."

Petrov flinched, hand shaking visibly.

Callen wheezed for air, vision tunneling in. He fell forward limply, dragging Dragovic off-balance. Petrov turned to face them, and in that moment, a shot rang out, cracking through the crisp air, and Dragovic lurched backwards, hand clutching his shoulder.

Dragovic's men opened fire, and Callen sprang out of Dragovic's grasp, tackling both Gibbs and Petrov to the ground and rolling off the paved parking lot into some overgrown bushes. The briefcase went skittering across the parking lot. Pressing himself flat, Callen whipped out his pistol and returned fire as Fornell sprinted for the Jeep.

"Go!" he shouted, "I'll get the briefcase!"

"Callen—" Gibbs protested.

"—Get Petrov out of here!" Callen barked, "I'll cover you!"

Machine gun fire erupted inside the office building, and the parking lot became a war zone.

Gibbs and Petrov sprinted across the parking lot as more cover fire rang from the Jeep.

Callen gathered himself, then surged to his feet, sprinting straight for the briefcase. A rumble of engines forced him to change course last minute as the big white truck rumbled towards him, Dragovic at the wheel. Callen dove to the side, firing through the windshield, but didn't quite clear the front of the car, the hood smashing into his legs.

Blinding pain erupted from his right knee as he skidded across the pavement from the force of the impact. Levering himself shakily to his feet, he lunged for the briefcase, sweaty palms grasping the handle before a sudden blow to the ribs drove the air from his lungs, sending the suitcase skittering across the parking lot again. Sputtering, he lashed out blindly, connecting with one solid left hook and diving away after the suitcase again. A boot came crashing down on him before he could get to his feet, and through blurred eyes, Callen made out Dragovic's leering face as the Bosnian raised his gun.

Another shot, not as loud this time, rang out, and Dragovic crumpled from view.

Suddenly, Gibbs was there, briefcase in one hand as he slung Callen's arm over his shoulders with the other.

"Come on," he murmured over the clatter of gunfire, "Let's get you out of here."

He half-dragged, half-carried Callen across the remaining strip of parking lot to the sloping patch of grass that lined the bank of the Sava. A blast sent Callen staggering, and he slipped to the ground, coughing wetly.

Breath after sobbing breath, Callen made it down the hill, only partially conscious by the time he realized that Gibbs had slung him over a shoulder in a fireman's carry. He vaguely recognized a little rowboat bobbing at the edge of the river before darkness closed in on him.

* * *

_Well. _

_A quick note: I know that Callen said that he'd never served in the armed forces, but humor me here. I feel like the Army would have been a logical place for him to start his career._

_Thanks for reading!_


	7. Chapter 7

"Callen? Callen. You gotta stay awake for me, you hear?"

Callen blinked rapidly, drawing in a deep breath that quickly turned into a sharp pain. He coughed weakly, and a gentle hand propped him up into a seated position.

"Where…?" he gasped.

"We're at the church waiting for our transport," Gibbs replied, holding a bottle of water to Callen's lips, "You've been out since we made the swap."

Callen drank greedily.

"Petrov?" he wheezed.

"He made it," Gibbs said, "He's probably halfway across Russia by now."

Callen breathed a sigh. He was so _tired_. All he wanted was to curl up and sleep, but his knee clamored for attention, and he couldn't seem to get enough air, and…

"Callen!" Gibbs was shaking him now, a note of desperation in his voice, "Callen! Stay with me."

Callen lolled his head forward, chin landing in a damp patch on his chest.

_Whose blood is that?_ he wondered, staring at the large, wet stain covering his shirt, _Dragovic? What happened to my vest?_

"Callen!" Gibbs grabbed the younger man's chin and jerked his head back, eyes blazing, "Focus. We're gonna get you out of here."

The chapel door burst open, and Fornell skidded in.

"They're here," he panted.

"Give me a hand, will ya?" Gibbs said.

Fornell sprinted to his side, and between them, they carried Callen out the door. Two armored cars had taken the place of Petrov's battered Jeep, and Gibbs and Fornell headed straight for the second empty car, nodding tersely to the driver as they yanked open the door and carefully placed Callen across the seat.

"Let's go!" Gibbs shouted the moment they were situated.

They rumbled out of the church yard, one flash of the steeple in the rearview mirror before it disappeared behind them.

"Hold this," Gibbs commanded Fornell, indicating a bloody mess of rags plastered to the right side of Callen's chest, "Keep the pressure."

Fornell pressed his hands down, and Callen moaned, low and weak.

"He's burning up, Gibbs," Fornell said quietly, taking in Callen's flushed cheeks and the spastic twitches of the younger man's right hand.

"I can see that," Gibbs snapped, leaning over to call to the driver, "How long to the extraction point?"

"About 6 minutes, sir!" the driver shouted back over the roar of the engine.

"You've radioed ahead for medical assistance?"

"Yes, sir!"

"What are you…" Callen wheezed suddenly, flailing weakly against Fornell, who flew backwards, off balance, as the car jolted across a pothole.

"Callen," Gibbs urged, placing his hands over the sluggishly leaking hole in Callen's chest, "It's alright. The SEALs are here, and we're taking you home."

"Gibbs," Callen breathed, eyes fluttering open.

"Yeah," Gibbs replied, "I'm here."

"I'm here too, thanks for asking," Fornell grumbled from the vicinity of Callen's legs, where he was checking the hastily-crafted splint Gibbs had thrown around Callen's right leg.

"What… happened?"

"The charges in the office building didn't detonate, so the SEAL team had to clear it room-by-room," Gibbs said, "We have the briefcase; all the files were transferred from the hard drives."

"The truck…" Callen rasped, "I remember the truck…"

"Yeah. We blew up the truck too," Fornell said, "All the copied hard drives are toast."

"Dragovic?"

"In custody."

Callen breathed out, sinking back into the seat.

"Thanks… for saving my ass," he mumbled.

"Thank me later," Gibbs replied, glancing out the window at the rapidly darkening sky, "We're not there yet."

They fell silent, the steady whine of the engine punctuated only by Callen's labored breathing. Fornell sat slumped on the floor, Gibbs's NCIS jacket still hanging loosely from his shoulders. Gibbs peeked under the makeshift bandage on Callen's chest. The bleeding had stopped, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief.

The car gave a sudden lurch as they left the main road and bounced down an unpaved trail to a wide, grassy clearing. A UH-60 Black Hawk sat in the middle of it, rotors picking up speed as the convoy of two sped towards it. Two men carrying a gurney raced towards them as they slid to a stop. Gibbs and Fornell piled out of the car to give them room to work as they quickly transferred Callen from the car to the helicopter.

Fornell paused a moment, turning back to the driver as Gibbs raced ahead to the chopper.

"Thanks for the assist," he said, "We owe you one."

"Just doing my job, sir," the SEAL replied, "Your guy's tough. He'll make it."

Fornell looked away for a moment at the medics loading Callen into the chopper.

"Yeah," he said quietly, "You guys pulling clean up duty?"

"Yes, sir," the SEAL said wryly, "We gotta clear out the rest of Dragovic's operation. With him out of the way, though, things should go pretty smoothly."

"Good to hear," Fornell said, turning away again as Gibbs shouted at him from the chopper, "I better go before Mister Hard-Ass Marine over there has a heart attack."

The SEAL grinned and revved the engine.

"Hey," Fornell said just as the car was pulling away, "You ever need anything, you know, after all this is over, let me know. The FBI could always use a guy like you."

The SEAL laughed, deep and strong.

"I appreciate that, sir. But I'm a Navy man, through and through."

Fornell sighed. _The Honorable, Dignified Brotherhood of Hard-Asses strikes again_.

"Tobias, if you don't get your ass over here right now, we _will_ leave without you!"

_Speaking of which_…

Fornell quickly held out a hand, and the SEAL took it in a surprisingly gentle grip for a man his size.

"Thanks…" Fornell trailed off, realizing he didn't know this man's name.

"Hanna," the SEAL supplied with a lopsided grin, "Sam Hanna."

Fornell nodded one last time before turning and sprinting to the chopper, hopping in just as the runners left the ground.

"Making new friends, Tobias?" Gibbs commented irritably, "We've got a man in serious need of medical attention, in case you've forgotten."

Fornell shrugged, "I thought a thank-you was in order since he and his team pretty much saved our asses back there. We owe them big time."

Gibbs sighed, wind ruffling his hair as he stood and leaned out the door, watching Serbia fall away beneath them.

"Yeah," he said, "We do."

* * *

_Well, that was it: the last chapter. __I couldn't resist bringing Sam in - I felt like this would be a logical connection given Fornell's concern in the NCIS episode "Semper Fi" when he asks how Callen's doing after the events of "Legend (Part II)." _

_Anyways, thanks for sticking with me - let me know what you think about this whole deal. An epilogue will be up tomorrow, and my other Callen story, _The Lonely World_, will resume its (somewhat) regular update schedule._


	8. Chapter 8

**EPILOGUE**

Callen had lost count of the number of times he'd ended up in the hospital after an op. From the CIA to the DEA to, now, NCIS, he was pretty sure he'd averaged at least one or two serious hospitalizations per year, not counting minor injuries involving concussions and broken bones. Minor injuries. Hah. Maybe he'd had one concussion too many.

At the moment, he was fending off boredom by examining the lumpy puddle of yellowish, brownish goop slowly oozing around his meal tray. Callen decided it was some sort of wilted applesauce, gingerly raising his right hand to scoop up a bit. He had it halfway to his mouth when the door to his private room (one of the few perks of being a non-existent agent of a subdivision that also didn't exist) swung open.

"Gibbs," he said in surprise.

"Hey," the man replied, closing the door carefully behind him.

Gibbs drew up a chair and clunked a bottle down on the ground by his feet, offering the other to Callen, who raised his eyebrows.

"Not beer. Doesn't really mix so well with what you're on," Gibbs said by way of explanation, popping open his bottle as Callen did the same.

Callen peered into the tinted glass cautiously.

"I'm not trying to poison you, ya know," Gibbs said.

Callen shot him a look and tipped the bottle back, taking one long pull. Blinking in surprise, he turned to Gibbs and said, "Cider? Apple cider?"

"Yeah."

Callen stared some more, then looked from his bottle to the oozing sauce on his tray.

He pushed the tray aside and took another drink.

"So, what're you doing in L.A.?" he asked, "You have business with OSP?"

Gibbs shook his head. "Had some time off," he replied, "Thought I'd visit a friend."

Callen took a long pull of cider to consider that.

"Petrov says hi. He's lying low in Moscow until this whole thing with Dragovic blows over."

Callen nodded slowly, savoring the sweetness in his mouth.

Gibbs leaned back in his chair, bottle hanging from his fingertips as he swirled the dregs around.

"So," he said, "How are ya, Callen?"

Callen cocked his head to the side.

"Other than the malaria and the fractured ribs and the busted knee… Not bad," he paused, adding with a smirk, "Maybe even bordering on good."

Gibbs met his gaze evenly.

"Going for that briefcase alone was pretty stupid," he said neutrally.

"I needed to buy time for you to get Petrov out of there. The charges in the office didn't blow, so I knew you wouldn't be able to make it across the parking lot without some real cover fire."

"Fornell was our cover. We planned it out."

"You know that one guy wouldn't have been enough to hold out until the SEALs got there."

"And two were?"

Callen stared at the bottom of his bottle.

"Look," he said, "I did what I had to do. You got Petrov out. We got the briefcase. We got Dragovic. Mission accomplished."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

"So that's it? Mission accomplished?"

"What else is there? We go in, do our job, get out."

Gibbs remained silent, and Callen suddenly felt like he'd said something terribly wrong.

Gibbs abruptly changed the subject.

"You ever thought about why you left the CIA? The DEA?"

"Got tired of them. Needed a change of scenery," Callen replied instantly.

"So you're looking for something more."

Callen paused, considering.

"Yeah… Yeah. I think I am."

"You think you'll find it?"

"I don't know," Callen said firmly, "But I'll keep looking until I do."

"You can't if you're dead," Gibbs said flatly.

Callen almost dropped his bottle.

"_What_?" he spluttered.

"There's a difference between looking and chasing. It's like brave and stupid. Throw yourself in too far, you might drown."

Callen looked down at his bare chest swaddled in bandages. A small twinge flared somewhere deep in there, and he smiled sadly, locking eyes with Gibbs.

"Good thing I've got a friend who can build boats."

Gibbs raised his bottle in a miniature toast.

"How'd you get the motor on that crappy little rowboat anyways?" Callen asked suddenly.

Gibbs shrugged, a sparkle in his eye.

"Jury-rigged the generator to an old outboard I found."

"So you just _found_ an outboard motor lying around. Imagine that."

Gibbs chuckled, checking his watch and standing.

"I gotta run," he said, taking Callen's bottle, "Got a plane to catch."

Callen frowned, "I thought you said you had some time off."

"Yeah," Gibbs said, "A day."

"You flew out here on your day off."

"Don't feel too special about yourself, Callen."

Callen smiled, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Thanks, Gibbs," he said hoarsely.

Gibbs paused, hand on the door handle.

Turning, he smiled and said, "Call me Jethro."

* * *

_Well, that's really it. Any lines sound familiar? I felt like this would be an appropriate place to tie this in the backdoor pilot, laying the basis for that close friendship we see between Gibbs and Callen when they meet on the beach. _

_Thanks for sticking with me all the way through the re-posting confusion - I'd love to hear what you all have to say about it. _


End file.
